With hectic thrusts of the head, Mother’s mouth tries to avoid Erika’s puckered mouth. Mother wildly tosses her head around, trying to escape the kisses. It’s like a lovers’ struggle, and the goal isn’t orgasm, but Mother per se, the person known as Mother. And this Mother resolutely puts up a fight. It’s no use, Erika is stronger. She winds around Mother like ivy around an old house, but this Mother is definitely not a cosy old house. Erika sucks and gnaws on this big body as if she wanted to crawl back in and hide inside it.

Elfriede Jelinek
The Piano Teacher

Welcome Home

January 15, 2020

Every mouth you’ve ever kissed
was just practice
all the bodies you’ve ever undressed
and ploughed in to
were preparing you for me.
i don’t mind tasting them in the
memory of your mouth
they were a long hall way
a door half open
a single suit case still on the conveyor belt
was it a long journey?
Did it take you long to find me?
You’re here now,
welcome home.

Warsan Shire

propose dreams

October 29, 2019

I’m not a thief. I don’t steal kisses, I compose verses that capture hearts. I propose dreams containing a thousand and one secrets that remain with you until the cold light of dawn. Look for me then. Look for me in the eyes of others. Look for me in vain. For I’ve stolen silently away. But I will return – at twilight. And then you will find me in the words and poems flowing under your skin.

P

The Sea and You

September 10, 2019

The stroke of the sea upon my door
is blue sensation between my toes,
and your impetuous leap through my spirit
is no less blue, an eternal birth.

All the color of awakened aurora
the sea and you swim to my encounter,
and in the madness of loving me
until the shipwreck
you both go breaking the ports and the oars.

If I just had a ship of seagulls,
and could for an instant stop them,
and shout my voice that they fight
in a simple duel of mystery!

That one in the other might find
his own voice,
interweave their dreams in the wind,
bind stars in their eyes
so that they give, united, their beams.

May there be a duel of music in the air
the opened magnolias of their kisses,
that the waves dress in passions
and the passion dress in sailboats.

All the color of awakened aurora
may the sea and you expand it into a dream
that it carry my ship of seagulls
and leave me in the water of two skies.

Julia de Burgos

Bites

September 1, 2019

Overwhelmed with desire
my kisses become bites
on your neck and shoulders –

Under my dress

August 26, 2019

Incredible desire to feel his kisses on my neck while his hands search under my blue skirt with its yellow flowers.

Intoxication

August 17, 2019

Drunk on your kisses that taste like August soaked in absinthe…

so come here. let me love those bruises out of you. we’ll love like children
with a box of bandages – we won’t ask where it hurts. we’ll
just kiss all of it.

Ashe Vernon

remember the kisses

May 19, 2019

I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.

Charles Bukowski

Practicing

January 10, 2019

I want to write a love poem for the girls I kissed in seventh grade,
a song for what we did on the floor in the basement

of somebody’s parents’ house, a hymn for what we didn’t say but thought:
That feels good or I like that, when we learned how to open each other’s mouths

how to move our tongues to make somebody moan. We called it practicing, and
one was the boy, and we paired off — maybe six or eight girls — and turned out

the lights and kissed and kissed until we were stoned on kisses, and lifted our
nightgowns or let the straps drop, and, Now you be the boy:

concrete floor, sleeping bag or couch, playroom, game room, train room, laundry.
Linda’s basement was like a boat with booths and portholes

instead of windows. Gloria’s father had a bar downstairs with stools that spun,
plush carpeting. We kissed each other’s throats.

We sucked each other’s breasts, and we left marks, and never spoke of it upstairs
outdoors, in daylight, not once. We did it, and it was

practicing, and slept, sprawled so our legs still locked or crossed, a hand still lost
in someone’s hair . . . and we grew up and hardly mentioned who

the first kiss really was—a girl like us, still sticky with moisturizer we’d
shared in the bathroom. I want to write a song

for that thick silence in the dark, and the first pure thrill of unreluctant desire,
just before we’d made ourselves stop.

Marie Howe